


You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: Greatest Hits of the Seventies [2]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag: Snowstorm, Hand Jobs, M/M, The Invisible Dog, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 03:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13732278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: The invisible dog becomes a less invisible fixture in their life, even though Starsky refuses to let the dog in his car. (“I got all leather seats. You ever seen what dog nails do to leather seats? Well you ain’t gonna see the results in my car!”) He genuinely likes the animal.Even if it is pretty hard to share Hutch’s bed with all the extra limbs flying around, it’s not so terrible. Starsky gets to go home when he’s had too much, Hutch doesn’t seem to know the meaning of “too much dog,” so they find a compromise.“You know, I promised when we started this thing that I wasn’t gonna get jealous,” Starsky tells his partner, as they stroll down to the beach, Hutch with the leash tucked around his wrist, and Starsky with a plastic frisbee under one arm. “But I’m starting to worry about this dog thing.”





	You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)

The invisible dog becomes a less invisible fixture in their life, even though Starsky refuses to let the dog in his car. (“I got all leather seats. You ever seen what dog nails do to leather seats? Well you ain’t gonna see the results in  _ my _ car!”) He genuinely likes the animal. 

Even if it is pretty hard to share Hutch’s bed with all the extra limbs flying around, it’s not so terrible. Starsky gets to go home when he’s had too much, Hutch doesn’t seem to know the meaning of “too much dog,” so they find a compromise.

“You know, I promised when we started this thing that I wasn’t gonna get jealous,” Starsky tells his partner, as they stroll down to the beach, Hutch with the leash tucked around his wrist, and Starsky with a plastic frisbee under one arm. “But I’m starting to worry about this dog thing.” 

“Come on, Starsky,” Hutch pleads. “Snowstorm loves you. And so do I!” 

Once they’re at the park, Hutch lets the dalmation off leash, but the dog hangs around near them, eyeing the frisbee in Starsky’s hand. Hutch rubs his ears, fondly, while they enjoy the sunshine. He wants to sit—but also doesn’t. If he has too much time to think…

“Starsk, throw that thing around, would you? We’re both waiting on you.” 

“Alright, alright, but this better not turn into me having to chase it just as much as the dog again,” Starsky allows, crouching down to show Snowstorm the frisbee, making sure he has the dog’s attention before he gives it a good throw and the dog takes off after it. 

Tucking his hands in his pocket, they both watch the dog bolt up the beach. “So, it’s still eating you, huh?”

“It’s not eating you?” Hutch says, kicking at the sand. “We’ve been working with dirty cops for years, we stick our necks out for them, they betray us, and to top off this fantastic case, your partner shoots another cop. Even if he was a piece of shit.” 

He looks up, focusing on the dog, watching as he jumps into the surf and races back with the frisbee. It’s easier to look at the dog. He goes to his knees when Snowstorm comes up to them, wrestles the frisbee from him, and throws it again. “We were—wrestling with the gun and—I should have—I should have been better.” 

“Well,” Starsky says, because he can’t say he doesn’t feel the same on some level. They should have figured things out sooner, shouldn’t have trusted so easily. Shouldn’t think that everyone thought of things like  _ morality  _ the same way they do. “Maybe we both shoulda been better.”

He reaches down and gives Hutch a heavy thump on the shoulders, then pats the dog on the head. “But more than that those other guys should have been better. They’re cops for christsakes. They know what they’re walking into and they did it with their eyes open. Would have suited me a hell of a lot better if they just sat down for the cuffs.”

Hutch stands up, feeling heavy, but he nods. That was true, and it does make him feel marginally better. “Still wish I hadn’t had to kill Corman.” 

He slings a casual arm around Starsky, watching their dog race up and down the beach, triumphant, with his frisbee, and it draws a grin from Hutch. 

“Look, hey, Snowstorm!” he shouts when it gets a little far, though there’s no way the dog knows its name yet. “Come on, boy! Come here!” 

It takes Hutch a moment to realize that the dog has dropped the frisbee and is bolting. He feels his stomach drop, and sprints after it. 

At the far end of the beach, a little girl in a sundress is running for the dog, also, calling out. “Pongo! Come here, boy! Oh Pongo  _ there _ you are!”

The dog greets her with genuine enthusiasm, bouncing and licking her face as she throws her arms around his neck and laughs.

“Oh boy,” Starsky says, lagging behind far enough to take the whole picture in. He sees the dog, the kid, and the kid’s mother topping the ridge in a lovely dress, on an intercept course from the other direction. He thinks he knows how this is going to go. 

“Hey, hey Snowstorm, get away from—” Hutch barks at the dog before he realizes he's greeting the little girl like a lost friend. “ _ Oh _ .”

“Gee, Mister, you found my dog! You found Pongo! Thanks!”

The mother arrives at the same time as Starsky, and Hutch kneels in the sand to be in a better level with the girl and to pet the dog that saved his life for, presumably, the last time. 

“This is your dog?”

“Yup, this is my Pongo, all right. He's been missing for days! Thanks for finding him!”

“Ah, yeah, sure,” Hutch says. He can't even feel bad for the loss, because  the reunion is so sweet, the girl hanging onto Pongo’s neck as he licks her face. “I gotta thank you for letting me borrow him. He saved my life, actually.”

“What? Wow! Good boy!” the girl cries. “How?”

“Well, me and my friend here are cops, see, and we made Pongo an honorary deputy,” Hutch said, grinning at how excited the kid clearly was. 

“Wow, really?”

“Yeah, he’s a hero,” Starsky agrees, playing into it, tucking his hands into his pockets. “And he’s been taking care of my friend.”

“Gee!” the girl exclaims. “Good boy, Pongo.”

“Thank you officers so much,” the woman says, smiling at them in clear happiness. “We just moved and he got lost in all the excitement, and Amanda’s been heartbroken…”

“Well, good dog like Pongo gets lost, that’s about as heartbreaking as it gets,” Starsky says, giving the girl a playful wink that makes her giggle. He reaches out to give the dog a few last pats, and passes over the frisbee, which Pongo takes like luggage. 

“Listen, if you uh, ever need a dog-sitter,” Starsky says, noticing a distinct lack of ring on the woman’s finger, which make his wingman skills instantly kick in. “My buddy Kenneth Hutchinson here would really love to help you out. Honest. He and this dog have a bond.”

“He really did save my—” Hutch says, looking up to find the mother startlingly beautiful, “life. Let me give you my card, Mrs…”

“Ms.,” she corrects, giving Hutch a once-over with her eyes as he unearths a card from his wallet. She rakes her eyes over Starsky, too.

“Can Pongo see your badge?” the little girl asks, clearly desiring to see it herself. 

“Sure,” Hutch grins, a little breathless, shaken out of staring at the beautiful mother only by Starksy's touch on his shoulder. 

Starsky produces his badge first, letting Maria take hold of the badge wallet and examine it thoroughly, turning it this way and that like a decoder ring.

“I’m Lillian,” the woman introduces, when they both have a hand free for her to shake. 

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Starsky says. “You just moved to the area? Do you come down to the beach often?”

“Maybe now we will,” she says, too warmly to just be politely interested, though she adds, “now that we have Pongo back.”

Hutch gets to his feet, and she takes a half-step back, visibly impressed by his height. The girl runs around with the dog, giggling and soaking her dress in the surf.

“Listen, I don't have cash for a reward, but can I make you dinner? Maybe Friday night, if you're not working late? We’re having chicken fried steak…”

“Hey, my favourite,” Starsky says, predictably.

It sounds artery-clogging, but Hutch smiles. “We'd love to.”

She might have meant only one of them, but she doesn't look disappointed.

“Can you bring your gun, Mr. Hutchinson?” the girl asks, and it startled a laugh out of him.

“Only if I'm expecting bad guys, Miss.”

“Oh, okay. I just wondered if Pongo gets one, and I could keep it safe for him.”

“Mandy,” Lillian scolds.

“I'll see what we've got at the station,” he says, with a wink at the mother.

“After all, he’s a very special dog,” Starsky says, and they take their leave with Hutch’s number safely in Lillian’s possession. 

Starsky hooks his elbow through Hutch’s in a playful manner. “How about that? Ain’t it a beautiful thing, a kid and their dog?”

“Yeah,” Hutch agrees with a sigh, in spite of himself. “Cute kid.” 

He pulls himself back to the present with an effort, and looks around, and laughs: “You gave away my frisbee!”

“You didn’t use it as much as the dog did,” Starsky tells him. “Besides, think of it as an investment, right?”

He can already see that Hutch feels better, so Starsky guides him back to the house and opens a beer for him, and one for himself. “Sorry about the dog, though. Maybe you can arrange for joint custody.”

It makes Hutch laugh, and laughing makes him more glad than usual for Starsky’s presence. He really looks him in the eye for the first time since they got off work. “We could order a pizza. I don’t feel like cooking, really. Thanks for...being with me.” 

Starsky smiles at Hutch, bright and open, leaning his elbow on the table and then setting his chin in his palm. “Partner, now I know you’re really not yourself. I’m going to take advantage of your condition. I know a great place that does delivery. You’re gonna love it. They put pepperoni on top of their pepperoni, and they don’t skimp on the jalapeno peppers, either.”

“You could take advantage of more than that,” Hutch says wryly, and though he sounds teasing, it’s a moment of openness in a relationship where they never keep anything from each other. 

Getting up, Starsky pauses, reaching out to offer his hand, and he takes Hutch’s when their palms are laid together and squeezes. For all his joking, his eyes are warm and content and focused on Hutch’s like he could divine their whole future just by looking into them. Maybe he could, or maybe he’s just looking for certainty that Hutch was turning himself around. Making sure his partner was okay.

Hutch takes the hand, kisses the knuckle of his thumb, squeezes back at the gentle pressure.  _ I’m okay _ . 

“You know what it reminds me of?” Starsky continues, after a long moment to be sure, before he heads to the phone. 

“Huh?” 

“The  _ restaurant _ ,” Starsky says. “When I was a kid, my grandma lived over this great little Italian place. You could smell it all hours of the day, it was like torture. There I was eating my grandma’s kugel, but downstairs I could smell all that divine, forbidden fruit.”

Hutch laughs. “You say that  _ every  _ time! Quick, order the pizza, before I change my mind.” 

_ About who’s going to take advantage of whom, too _ , he thinks to himself, hungry for more than just pizza. He’s already imagining Starsky yielding beneath him, wound-up muscles, tightly coiled curls, the stress of the day, all of him just relaxing for him. Before Starsky can ask, he calls, “There’s cash in my wallet.” 

Starsky is already halfway through ordering a pizza with extra extra everything, and he gives Hutch a knowing grin. Not that eventually they didn't come out even. Starsky paid when Hutch told him to, and Hutch covered when Starsky couldn’t, easy as that.

“There, now nobody has to worry about cooking,” Starsky says, as he settles down at the table with Hutch, sitting next to him even though he has the whole table, just so he can rub thighs. “I thought I was gonna have to give up Pizza forever when I moved to this coast, but it turns out all I had to do was find some place run by a guy from New York.”

Hutch grins, picking at the label on his beer. “You’re such a snob. A pizza snob. What’s the difference between one pizza and the next, except toppings?” 

It’s mostly a rhetorical exercise: he really just wants to hear Starsky talk, and riling him up is the best way to do that. 

“Just because  _ you _ don’t care about food doesn’t mean everybody doesn’t,” Starsky says. “There’s three major schools of Pizza; New York style, Chicago style, and the ridiculous rinky-dink things they’re starting to call California style. The last time I had a California style pizza they put  _ spinach _ on it, can you believe it? Pizza should be soft, thin enough to fold in half, and sold by the slice at lunch time. Anything else is a poor imitator.”

“ _ I _ like spinach on pizza,” Hutch defends. “There’s a place that’ll sautee it in garlic and balsamic vinegar and then bake it on, so it’s really good!” 

And then they’re into it, animatedly debating pizza and drinking beers until the pizza arrives, and by then they’re both so hungry for it that Hutch doesn’t even care that there’s about four things he doesn’t normally eat on it, and they dig in, watching the sun set out Hutch’s huge windows. 

“Hey, so, you wanna stay the night?” Hutch blurts out. This time he’s the one three beers in, and Starsky is giving him this grin that is as adorable as it is infuriating. “I thought I’d ask rather than try to get you too drunk to drive.” 

“Boy, and people say you’re the romantic one,” Starsky laughs, sitting back after devouring half a pizza almost without pause for air. He feels good, and well, there’s no dog to kick him out of the bed at least. “But yeah, I’d like to stay. Honestly, I think I need to stay. It’s been rough this week, huh?”

Hutch frowns at that, briefly. Starsky does deserve better—deserves cheering up, too—and maybe getting his head out of his own sorry troubles is the best thing for that. Maybe he  _ should  _ be more romantic. “Yeah… Sorry, ah—we could finish that bottle of wine Linda brought?” 

They both laugh at the same time, and Hutch covers his face. “I guess I thought asking you instead of getting you drunk  _ was  _ me being romantic, but that...sets the bar really low.” 

“Hutch, I was just kidding, partner,” Starsky reassures him, reaching out easing his palm over Hutch’s thigh to leave a warm point of contact between them. “You never have to be anything for me but who you are, right? Nobody should be putting on a show. That’s for charming the ladies.”

Leaning over, Starsky kisses Hutch’s cheek, right where his frown lines form when he’s worried. “Maybe I should brush my teeth before we make out, though.” 

“Not sure all the toothpaste in the world can help you with all those onions you ate,” he laughs, giving Starsky a shove. 

“You ate just as many, so at least there’s that,” Starsky says, climbing over the chair more than getting out of it.

But as he gets up to go, Hutch snags his wrist. “Not a show, not charming anybody. I just mean you really do deserve the best, partner.” 

“Good thing I got it, huh?” Starsky asks, turning his hand to grip Hutch’s hand. “I’ll wash, you dry?”

Hutch needs a minute to process this, so he nods and lets Starsky go. It has been a rough few weeks. A rough set of cases. The car bomb, the rape and murder of Emma Lou Tyler ending in the death of her husband, and then the cocaine bust turning up two dirty cops and dragging up old memories for poor Dobey. And through it all, Starsky has been a rock, an easy silence when Bay City was just too loud. Reliable. Comfortable. 

And maybe Starsky wanted and needed him just as much as he wanted and needed Starsky. 

Starsky goes to brush his teeth first, just like he’d intended, before joining Hutch in the kitchen to get his hands in the soapy water and scrub their two plates, two glasses, and one set of silverware (Starsky had eaten with his hands), humming tunelessly. “So what’d you think? Best pizza you’ve had in a while, huh?”

“Well it shut you up for about fifteen minutes, or however long it takes you to devour ten slices of pizza,” Hutch laughed, snapping Starsky on the ass with the drying towel. “So yeah.”

“Hey!” Starsky fails to avoid the sudden outlash, because he can only go so far with his hands in the sink, but he can get his revenge by turning the spray-nozzle toward Hutch and on, briefly. Enough to start horseplay that winds up with the dishes (barely) in the dish drainer and then the pair of them manhandling each other over Hutch’s linoleum. 

Hutch laughs, wriggling and slipping free of Starsky’s hold. Starsky is solid and throws his training behind his weight, pinning Hutch’s legs so he can’t get enough leverage to throw him off. 

Heaving his knee between Hutch’s thighs, Starsky does his best to pin him in place with his soapy hands slipping at Hutch’s wrists, and wrestling turns quickly into kissing because it was never about wrestling in the first place. 

At least, not entirely. Hutch gives in only when Starsky starts kissing him. Then he relaxes, all the fight going out of him, and he winds his arms around Starsky’s neck and rocks against his knee. If Starsky is half as hard from this as he is, they had better move this to the bed. 

“You better let me up, partner, so I can finish romancing you properly,” he says, unable to help how low and husky his voice has gone, and how he’s panting, lips just inches from Starsky’s. 

“And here I was thinking I had you right where I wanted you,” Starsky says, but maybe with the both of them still pretty bruised up from that fight in Rolly’s pawn shop, rolling around on the kitchen floor and rubbing on each other isn’t doing them any favors. Besides, there has to be a more civilized way to do this than rubbing on each other like teenagers.

Starsky lets go of Hutch’s wrists and hoists himself up, and the front of his jeans look uncomfortable (feel that way, too) to say the least, when he gives Hutch a hand up. “Don’t tell Pongo, but I’m glad we got the place to ourselves tonight.”

That earns him a warm smile and an even warmer kiss. “Yeah, I’ll give you that.” 

They leave the pizza to get cold on the counter and Hutch backs him into the bedroom, stopping at the fridge to grab the re-corked bottle of wine. It was too sweet before, in Hutch’s opinion, so it will probably only have improved, unless it went vinegary. On his way past the china cabinet, he grabs two wine glasses, holding bottle and glasses in his long fingers so he can still curl his fist loosely in Starsky’s shirt, keeping him on the move, locking him with a stare he can’t break away from. 

In the bedroom, Hutch sets the wine and glasses on the nightstand and gives Starsky a gentle push so he flops onto his back onto the bed. He tosses off his jacket and shirt, just buzzed enough to be bold, and pours two wine glasses. “Red wine in bed. That’s romance, right?” 

“Sure, I like it,” Starsky says, his eyes glued to Hutch’s body rather than the promised glass of wine. He sits up on his elbows to kick his shoes off into a pile and pull off his own T-shirt. “Mood lighting. Uh, plants.”

He reaches up and tucks an offending tendril of Hutch’s pothos out of the way behind the headboard. “Not quite roses, but I’ll take it.” 

Taking the glass of wine, Starsky has a sip, then sets it aside and reaches for Hutch instead. “Only thing that’s missing is Donna Summer on the radio and a little contact, right?”

Hutch smiles, adoration sparkling in his eyes. On his way down, he clicks on the radio by the bed, fiddling with the stations until he finds some gentle soul music. The moaning is about right, anyway. “How’s that?” 

His voice is soft, and his touch even softer as he cups Starsky’s face and leans down for a kiss, tipping him back against the bed and tasting wine on his lips. The vintage has improved, or else it’s the company. This time he gets a knee between Starsky’s legs and grinds down, gently, teasing, and runs one thumb across his partner’s collarbone and over his shoulder. “The wine tastes better like this. You should have some more.” 

“Sure,” Starsky says, arching his hips and getting his hands into Hutch’s baby fine hair to rumple it all up, digging his hands in at Hutch’s shoulders next. He pulls his partner in for a kiss as they explore each other.

The hand trails down Starsky’s lush chest hair to the fasten on his jeans, and Hutch works them open and down, all smooth, slow movements. No rush. Like Starsky is the center of his world. Because he is.

It takes some doing for Starsky to get his hand under the waistline of Hutch’s jeans, so he can work his palm over half of Hutch’s ass in the confined space and use his grip to grind their hips together.

Hutch rocks his hips forward, grinning.

“That's just perfect,” Starsky rumbles, looking right into Hutch’s eyes, and he's not talking about the music or the wine. 

“Yeah,” Hutch agrees, his whisper strangled only slightly by a groan. “If you'll let me, Starsk, I'd like to fuck you tonight.”

He watches Starsky carefully for a reaction, seeing only the swelling of his pupils until the blue is almost drowning, and he's so achingly pretty, almost vulnerable, that Hutch can't help but kiss him again. “You ever done that before? I promise I'll take care of you, partner. We'll use protection. Maybe we'll see how many times you can go in one night for me.”

Starsky exhales slow, because he wants Hutch in that greedy way he wants a lot of things in life; any way he can have him. He hasn’t been there before, only rushed through help-me-outs in the locker room. It feels more right that it’s Hutch, for this. “I know you will, partner. Show me what I’m doing, huh? I want that.” 

“Yeah, baby. I got you.” Hutch grabs Starksy's hands and pins them to the bed, wondering if his partner is in the mood to follow orders or buck them. Starksy's stronger, the better in close combat, so he could free himself at any time. 

So far, he hasn't made a move. “You want to let me take care of you tonight?”

(On some level, it'll feel good for Hutch, too. To be able to do something right. Make one person happy.)

(Well, two.)

They’ve always traded who took the lead effortlessly, and this is one of those times where Starsky concedes to Hutch’s superior experience, but he’s paying attention. “Yeah, babe. That what you want? ‘Cause you’re the one with all the good ideas.”

Starsky surges up, far enough to kiss Hutch again, without pulling his wrists free. He can listen, for once, follow the rules until he knows what they are at least. Wasn’t that an important part of their lives? Knowing the rules so they knew when to break them? Starsky thinks this is like that. 

“Yeah,” Hutch says, holding Starsky’s face with both hands as they kiss. “Yeah, that’s what I want. And I need you to just—relax for me. If you’re touching me, I won’t be able to last, see? And I need to last. You think you can keep your hands off me?”

“I can try, but there’s just so much I want to touch,” Starsky says, half a complaint, but he puts his hands up, resting the backs of his wrists on the pillow  under his head in the universal sign of unconditional surrender.

Seeing Starsky relax with his hands over his head like that goes straight to Hutch’s dick, and he’s grinning, almost giggling, feeling a giddy rush just from thinking about having Starsky all to himself, about taking him and taking care of him so totally. While they are still kissing, he slides Starsky’s underwear off until he’s totally naked beneath him, and gets both his knees in between his thighs. And Starsky is perfect like this, and Hutch can’t stop kissing him, though there’s things he needs. A pillow, condoms, lube. He just can’t take his hands off Starsky, kissing down his neck and sucking a bruise underneath his hair while he toys with his nipples, finding out how sensitive they are. 

This is tougher than Starsky expected, to keep his hands off. Instead he just writhes and shifts, pushing his body up into the things he likes, hissing and sighing, fighting to keep from touching Hutch even as he effortlessly seems to wind Starsky up to a state of arousal that he’d approached only in his wildest fantasies and maybe a few other times in Hutch’s presence.

“Hard not to touch you, partner,” Starsky pants, eyes glued to what Hutch is doing. “I mean, it’s just a natural state for us.”

“I know,” Hutch hums, taking his time, taking his sweet time, sucking one nipple into his mouth and then the other, trying out gentle and hard until Starsky makes a noise— _ so, he likes it hard, then, with a little bit of teeth _ —and then going back to kissing him. 

Starksy is really trying, so Hutch takes pity on him, grabbing his wrist and hooking his hand around the back of his neck, letting Starsky curl his hands into his hair. “Just don’t touch my dick, how’s that? And don’t touch yours, either. Fair?” 

“No, it’s  _ not _ fair,” Starsky says, sulkily, stroking his fingers against Hutch’s scalp and neck. “But I’ll abide by it.”

Hutch turns to kiss his wrist, and now he can reach across to the nightstand and get out two condoms and the lube before he goes back to kissing his partner, kissing him until they’re both breathless and dizzy, and Starsky’s lips are kiss-bright and wet. He slides a pillow under Starsky’s hips and settles back. “I’m gonna suck your dick while I get you ready for me. Gonna start with my fingers until you’re nice and stretched and slick. How’s that sound?” 

“Sounds amazing,” Starsky encourages, curling his fingers into Hutch’s shoulders, and then over the expanse of them, and down his sides. He doesn’t touch lightly, more grips and pulls because he’s promised not to do anything more distracting. 

Hutch grins, suddenly shy and instantly blushing. “And stop me if the narrating gets boring, okay, handsome?”

“Gonna be awful hard for you to narrate in a second,” Starsky points out, running his thumb over one of Hutch’s reddening cheeks. 

As if to prove his point, Hutch sucks Starksy's thumb into his mouth.

“But in the meantime, don’t worry about it. It’s educational. You know I think the words coming out of your mouth like six times a da—”

Starsky stutters out into a groan as Hutch starts to make good on his promise, rolling his hips up just a little until he finds a comfortable position on Hutch’s lumpy actual-bird-feather pillow (seriously, nobody uses goose down anymore).

Hutch almost grins, and moans instead, warming to the feel of Starsky in his mouth like he warms to every part of him. He spreads a big hand over Starsky’s chest, holding him, and works one slick finger over his hole. He's hairy literally everywhere, and it's an aesthetic Hutch likes, but he  _ really  _ likes it on Starsky: everything about the man is more bordering on too much.

Starsky’s thigh and belly muscles are twitching in anticipation, so he begins to push one finger in, popping off just enough to say, “Here we go,” when they're already there. 

Hutch works the digit in and out, getting him used to the sensation, humming “Relax,” to him as he crooks his finger upward. 

“This is harder than it looked in  _ The Opening of Misty Beethoven,” _ Starsky pants, trying to relax. It feels strange, not necessarily in a bad way, but not quite what he expected. Hutch was good at it, at distracting with his hot mouth and slow progress, but Starsky is still writhing and shifting, and then Hutch curls his long, clever, finger up again and it does something  _ different. _

“ _ Hutch,” _ Starsky gasps, curling his hand into Hutch’s hair tight, feeling a trembling electric jolt just tease through his body. He bites his lip, pulls a groan with the air through his teeth.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Hutch gasps, pulling off and jacking him with a loose fist. He draws back from that bundle of nerves and then tries again, his heart and his dick swelling as he watches Starsky writhe for him so beautifully. “You all right? Think you can come for me from this?” 

“Shh—” Starsky starts, then swallows, arching his body, gripping his fingers harder into Hutch’s hair to look him in the eyes like this was going to be the most important thing. “Sure I could. I don’t wanna, though. Want you to fuck me, just like you said, since you haven’t let me touch you yet.”

“Yeah, all right.” Hutch smiles softly, nodding, like he’d give Starsky the world if he asks, and he only stops stroking his cock to brace himself to lean over him. He does work another slick finger inside him, shifting them as he works him open. “Just relax for me, baby. You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” Starsky says, pulling Hutch toward him for another kiss, and then groaning into it when Hutch’s belly rubs over his cock. “I’m doing okay. It’s a little different than I expected, that’s all.”

Arching his body, Starsky seems to finally be able to relax into it, his body getting a little looser when he can look into Hutch’s eyes while Hutch works on him; or maybe it’s just that the imminent danger of orgasm from Hutch’s talented mouth has receded, so he can focus on relaxing. Then Hutch does that thing with his fingers again, and it seems to crush everything but sensation out of Starsky now that he seems to know right what he’s aiming for (like the base of Starsky’s cock, but from the  _ inside _ ) except for how good it is. Starsky’s teeth close on Hutch’s lower lip for one pinching moment before he realizes and turns his head to sink them into Hutch’s shoulder instead, rocking into it. 

The sharp sting almost has Hutch hissing and pulling back. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay, Starsk. I got ya. I got ya, boy.” 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Starsky mutters, because he  _ is _ . It doesn’t hurt, not really. There’s a little sting but it’s Hutch, and beyond that it’s good. Really good. 

Hutch’s voice is low and measured, and he braces himself on one elbow so he can get a hand under Starsky’s head, to hold him against his shoulder. Hutch tells himself that if he’s rubbing himself off on Starsky, that at least Starsky is getting something out of it, too. Slowly he adds a third slicked finger, knowing if he takes this much, it’ll be enough, and to distract him from the sting he massages his prostate again, pushing on it hard like Starsky seems to like. 

Pressing groans into Hutch’s skin, Starsky seems to be slowly coming apart, fraying at the edges as he hangs onto Hutch, digging his nails in over Hutch’s shoulders, then sliding his hands between them, low over Hutch’s belly, down to feel the way his arm is moving and flexing, then back up, working his thumb over one of Hutch’s nipples, an absent wandering and exploration. His voice is distant, a little higher and tighter. “Alright, a little more babe, I can take it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Starsky,” Hutch whispers, promises against his forehead, and he kisses him once more, soft and lingering. “Okay, let me up, partner.” 

He gets his arm out from under Starsky’s head and his fingers out of him and crouches between his legs. He still has his pants on, and his cock practically springs free as he unzips and tugs pants and underwear down. He slides the condom on and adds more lube, and lifts Starsky’s legs on top of his thighs. 

“Okay, Starsky. Eyes on me, okay? I got you,” Hutch says as he begins the slow slide into him, getting a hand on Starsky’s dick again. “That’s it, that’s it.” 

Starsky does as commanded, feeling a little more open and vulnerable like this than he’d expected, but then Hutch is getting close to him again and all that fades. He reaches up, gets his hands on Hutch’s shoulders. There’s a moment when he doesn’t think it’s going to work, and then—he grunts—and it starts to happen. It’s— _ a lot _ , but not the wrong kind. It’s part sting and then he gets the idea, feels the rhythm.

Breathing out, Starsky relaxes, watching Hutch’s pupils dilate as he sinks deeper, faster, as Starsky gets the idea of how not to resist. “Jeez, baby, that’s not so bad. It’s a  _ lot _ , but it’s not so bad.”

So, maybe he’s sweating with the effort a little, and his whole body feels like if a stiff breeze hits him just right he’s going to shoot his load into the stratosphere, none of that is objectionable, especially with Hutch looking right at him. 

“Yeah. That’s it, Starsk,” Hutch coaches, though his own voice breaks as he’s overwhelmed, too. Starsky looks gorgeous like this, all open and sweaty and needy. He isn’t sure he’s going to get all the way inside him before he comes, honestly, but Starsky looks like he’s close, too. “God, you’re—gorgeous.” 

Everything is tight and tense and slowly relaxing, and Hutch leans down to kiss Starsky again as he seats himself fully inside him. “I’ve got you, partner.” 

Starsky actually heaves a little laugh from his belly and it shakes both of them. “Technically, I've got  _ you.” _

Hutch laughs, folding over him, except for the hand he’s got loose around Starsky’s cock, working him toward the orgasm that’s been building since they started, knowing he’s not far behind. 

It's not going to take much, just the pressure and contact is almost enough, but it's embarrassing that neither of them lasts at all with each other. “It's good, partner, you always know what's good.”

Hardly coherent, far from eloquent, but true. It's Starsky who starts moving first, rocking his hips and tipping his head back in a vulnerable gesture. “You gonna let me make you feel this good next time?”

“Of course. Me and thee,” Hutch whispers, breath hot against Starsky’s neck, and he kisses the hollow and jut of his throat before he rolls his hips. He doesn’t think he can hit his prostate from this angle but he’s going to try, and anyway his hand on Starsky’s cock is working faster, and Hutch can feel his partner gasping and arching like he’s close. “That’s it, Starsk. I got you. You can come. Come for me, baby, let me see you.” 

It doesn’t take long (maybe it never would between them), before Starsky gets his hands on Hutch’s ass and pulls him forward, wanting him all the way inside as he spills out into Hutch’s fist, gripping tight. He makes a low, raw sound as he does, like he’s helpless to do anything but as he goes tense and slack in waves while orgasm wrings him out. One of his hands slides up to the back of Hutch’s neck, cradling against it, hanging on, before Starsky finally relaxes into catching his breath, for a pause of only moments before he lifts his head to check on Hutch with heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” Hutch encourages, all of him soft except for the one part of him that isn’t, and he lets Starsky hold him just where he wants him as he falls apart for him. It’s beautiful and messy and sweet and vulnerable, and Hutch isn’t sure he could love his partner more, but seeing him like this is making him wonder. “Fuck, Starsk, look at you.” 

It’s enough to make his eyes cross, so Hutch squeezes them shut as he fucks him through his own orgasm, while Starsky is loose and blissed out. Hutch groans softly into his neck, gripping his hips tight, and comes, and collapses on top of him, their bodies sweat-sliding together. 

“Beautiful. You’re beautiful, you know that?” Hutch gasps, needing a minute before he rallies to clean them both up. “You doing okay?” 

Starsky pulls Hutch down for a kiss, because that says more than words do, and right now he doesn’t want to do a heck of a lot of talking. “Just fine. Don’t go anywhere.”

Because he wants to spend these few dizzy, relaxed moments with his partner, open and vulnerable except nothing could take them on if they were together. Starsky presses a kiss to Hutch’s temple, then his cheek, rubbing his shoulders, affectionate like he needs the contact, or he’s mapping out the parts that belong to him like they were his own. 

Hutch relaxes into the sensations, letting Starsky knead any remaining tension out of him. Already the bad days and weeks seem far away, like they can’t touch them here. He shifts to pull out and then he can tuck himself half-on and half-beside Starsky like he really wants to, head pillowed on his shoulder.

Then Hutch gets heavy, and Starsky is covered in cooling sweat and they both need to clean up appropriately. “Hey. Let’s take a shower?”

“Yeah,” Hutch says, coming instantly to life. “Sounds great. Make you finish this wine with me.” 

He gets up on his knees and pulls Starsky upright. “Now you might be a little sore…” 

A groan gives voice to the truth of that, pulling out of Starsky’s chest as he staggers to his feet. “Yeah, a little.”

Once he has his balance, it’s not so bad. He feels just a little bowlegged as he heads to the shower, but Hutch had been good to him and he knows that. He lets Hutch carry the wine glasses though, before taking his and having a long sip as the shower warms up. “If anybody runs tomorrow, you get to chase ‘em.”

Hutch laughs, loud enough to tease, but he kisses Starsky after a sip of wine so that he knows he still loves him. “That sounds fair, seeing as how I’m faster anyway.” 

Just because things have gotten romantic between them, doesn’t mean they stop being what they were before, either. 

“No, you’re the cute one,” Starsky reminds, easing into the shower with Hutch and finishing his glass of wine quickly enough to leave him a little dizzy with it, and leaning easily against Hutch under the shower spray. “I’m the fast one. Remember?” 

He eases his arms around Hutch’s middle, swaying their bodies together though he has to stand on tiptoes to get his chin over Hutch’s shoulder, and reaches down to curl his hand over Hutch’s cock almost absently. “Unless you’re fast other ways.”

“At least I’m not easy,” Hutch laughs, pinching Starsky’s ass until he yelps and lets go to smack his hand away. 

“That’s not true at all,” Starsky laughs, “any face with a pair of pretty eyes and you lose it.”

They rinse off and down the rest of the wine—fast enough to be giggly as they tumble into bed, still kissing. Starsky rolls on top of him this time, and Hutch gives him a brilliant smile. “Thanks for being here. You’re even better than a dog.” 

Laughing, Starsky pins Hutch flat, shaking his head. “Better than a dog? Well if you want me to fetch your slippers and the paper in the morning, you got another thing coming.”


End file.
